Las ventanas estaban prisioneras del horizonte en aquel tiempo donde fuimos. Alrededor del jardín, en contra del sol. Dormía en la brisa de tus huesos, en la queja del viento, en el pasado de la noche. Te intuía solitaria y perfecta, de cerca y lejos, como una llegada que no llega. Intermitente como la vieja bombilla que sobre nuestro lecho parpadeaba.
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